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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524389">Watch you burn so bright</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt'>DorMarunt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(because it's Andres), Andres is pretty unhinged in this, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, M/M, Smut, forking, mentions of Ariadna, mentions of Tatiana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:46:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Andrés has killed before. Not out of sport - not until then, at least. So when he twists the fork in the fat fuck’s groin, careful to make as much damage as he possibly can, he has to ask himself… why? Why hasn’t he done that before? It’s a revelation, is what it is, the rush that runs through him as he carefully washes his hands, dries them, and fixes his bowtie in the mirror. He’s never consciously enjoyed taking a life - he hasn’t spent too many sleepless nights tortured about that either; but he never, ever felt the thrill that runs through him now, and he feels all the more powerful now that he’s experienced it. </p>
  <p>He’s thinking of making his exit, not one hair out of place, all calm and collected like he didn’t just watch the life leave another person’s eyes mere minutes ago. He has his hand above the door handle when the door opens, revealing an agitated-looking Martín.</p>
  <p>“Fifteen seconds, and we go.”</p>
</blockquote>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Watch you burn so bright</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A journey inside the mind of a man of a man who knows he'll die, but wants to do it on his own terms.<br/>This gets pretty dark, be forewarned.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They stand on that hill, the beauty of Italy at their feet, and Sergio is still talking about how the plan won’t work, how they’ll all die; all the things he’s said before and Andrés only half-listened then just as he half-listens now. Sergio is drudging on as if Andrés doesn't know it, as if that's not how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> it to unfold. He cuts Sergio mid-sentence - time is such a precious commodity now, no use wasting it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was always supposed to die young,” he says abruptly, and Sergio looks at him, confusion in his eyes as words get stuck in his throat. Andrés pulls him closer into his thoughts. “A tragedy; gone so young, survived only by his legacy. But that’s where I got greedy, Sergio. I wanted to make a masterpiece, a veritable constellation of gorgeously planned and executed heists. I wanted to make dad </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I wanted to make </span>
  <em>
    <span>myself </span>
  </em>
  <span>proud. But I didn’t know when to stop. It was always just one more heist, then another, and another. I didn’t get out while I still could, and— now I have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What— Andrés, what are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was diagnosed, hermanito. I have it too; mom’s illness. Hellmer’s Myopathy. They told me I have three years, but you know how it is; it’s probably going to be more like five, seven even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m— I’m sorry, I don’t— “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine. It’s absolutely not fine, it’s not fair, that’s what it is. I won’t be able to do it on my own terms. To get the last word. So don’t ask me to stop working on the plan. Don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>take away the only thing in my life that I can control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio folds just like Andrés knew he would. That’s where he is now, playing the dying man card - such a cliche. But, well, whatever works. He is going to do the Bank of Spain heist, it will be the jewel in his crown. So he’s going to die - fine. But he’s going to do it his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín has to know that there’s no way they’ll make it out alive. He’s too smart not to know. Unfortunately, he’s also in love, stupidly, naively, and blindly in love. Andrés doesn’t mind it at all. So he’s an asshole; it is what it is. Life’s a bitch, it takes what it wants. Now it’s Andrés’ time to want. And he’ll take it, regardless of the dead bodies he’ll be leaving behind - Martín’s, Sergio’s, his own. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés has killed before. Not out of sport - not until then, at least. So when he twists the fork in the fat fuck’s groin, careful to make as much damage as he possibly can, he has to ask himself… why? Why hasn’t he done that before? It’s a revelation, is what it is, the rush that runs through him as he carefully washes his hands, dries them, and fixes his bowtie in the mirror. He’s never consciously enjoyed taking a life - he hasn’t spent too many sleepless nights tortured about that either; but he never, ever felt the thrill that runs through him now, and he feels all the more powerful now that he’s experienced it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s thinking of making his exit, not one hair out of place, all calm and collected like he didn’t just watch the life leave another person’s eyes mere minutes ago. He has his hand above the door handle when the door opens, revealing an agitated-looking Martín.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifteen seconds, and we go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he finishes his sentence, the fire alarm goes off, and there are screams of </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Fire! Get out!’ </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Fifteen seconds precisely, and Andrés follows Martín out, blending in with the crowds that are pushing towards the emergency exit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín, for all that he doesn’t seem to know that they would die getting the gold - a fairly important detail, Andrés thinks - does know Andrés. He knew what he was doing in there, and bought him the time and opportunity to escape unnoticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been ten years, of course Martín knew Andrés. He’s been by his side through many well-executed plans and many failed relationships. Four weddings, too. He always sat through all of that, taking what was sure to be a painful experience with a pleasant smile and continuous support to Andrés and whoever may have been by his side at the moment. Four times in the past, and this time would be the fifth. Martín sings and dances at his wedding, joyful and vivacious, but Andrés does catch the sadness in his eye when Martín doesn’t know that he’s looking. He acts okay though, at least until nightfall, when he gets so drunk that Sergio has to carry him in his room to sleep it off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés doesn’t leave for his honeymoon, not immediately - Tatiana has a concert so she’s gone for a few nights, and they’re leaving as soon as she returns. He sees Martín only once over the next two days; in the kitchen, downing milk straight from the bottle, standing in the light spilling from the open door of the fridge. He looks ragged and tired, but at least he appears to be sober. He still doesn’t talk to Andrés past the necessary hellos and good nights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés worries then, when it’s the second day and Martín hasn’t been out of his room, not once. He doesn’t care what time it is when he finally relents that he should </span>
  <em>
    <span>do something about it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If Martín isn’t with him, if Andrés fucked it all up by getting married - again, not something he’s doing for the first time, but it’s the first time that Martín takes it so hard - if Andrés fucked it up, the Bank of Spain plan is as good as dead. Andrés can’t have that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no light coming from Martín’s room when he knocks at his door in the middle of the night, but there’s a tired ‘come in’. Andrés pushes the door open and walks in. It’s dark and Martín doesn’t turn on the lights, but Andrés can see him getting up from his bed with a grunt and a sigh that speak of his age. He’s quiet, taking a few steps before stopping in the middle of the room, covered by shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankly, Andrés wants Martín to not bail out on him, not when he’s so close. But he has the upper hand, and as tacky as it may feel to use it, it’s for the greater good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, well, for his own good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he takes control of the situation, just like he took control of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What you did at the restaurant, it was— “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Necessary.” Martín cuts him off. The pointy shadow of his elbow cuts through the dark as Martín sets his hands on his hips, like he always does when he’s about to drag Andrés through some pretty nasty conversations. He was like that, such a peacock when he felt that he was in the right, all theatrical gestures and painted metaphors that, at the drop of a hat, could fall head-first into beautifully unhinged fits of rage. See, Andrés learned him too, in those ten years. He knew who Martín was, he knew what he needed, and right now Martín needed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>get it all out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would have gotten away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe, but your face would have ended up on every channel, you’d be sought by the police everywhere. It would jeopardize the plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that the only reason? The plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín sets his jaw. He’s not saying anything, but Andrés can read his eyes, can practically see the fight inside him, the decade of desperate longing hanging on the precipice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s you. I did it for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martín,” he says, cautious and inviting. “Say it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín smiles, defiance shining in his upturned jaw, and even though Andrés can't see him in the pitch blackness of the room, he can almost feel it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” </span>
  <span>Martín says ‘I love you’ all casual, like it doesn’t mean what they both know it means. Like it’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>a thing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“That can’t come as a surprise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And— silence. The air is still, small particles dancing in the faint moonlight. Andrés doesn’t know what to do, to listen to that urge inside him or to ignore it like he always does but the choice is taken from him before he can even make up his mind. Martín approaches him slowly, a dark shape in the night, until he’s right in front of Andrés. A pale blue beam catches the side of his face, and Andrés can see his eyes twinkle as he stops, briefly, and just looks at him, at his eyes, then at his lips. And then, before Andrés can register that he’s even moved, Martín’s lips are on his own, his fingers cupping his face, and he’s stunned, he can’t react.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés keeps himself very still, eyes open in the darkness, so close to Martín’s face that he can’t make out anything. Martín’s lips peel away softly, and Andrés realizes only then that he’s vehemently opposed to breaking that kiss. Martín’s breath stops when Andrés catches his shoulders, and he's getting just a fraction smaller, tense - afraid? But he relaxes again in Andrés’ arms where he was scooped, his tentative kiss turning hungry where he licks at the seam of Andrés’ lips, prying them open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's disoriented, dizzy with the kiss and it’s dark and he has no idea where he is in the room but he puts one foot in front of the other, and Martín follows, no resistance as he lets himself walked backwards until he makes a surprised noise and spills onto the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Show me,” Andrés says, but he’s not sure that’s what he wants to say, yet there he was, asking Martín to show him… what? How much he loved him? He feels wild with it, the novelty, the surface wrongness of it all. This was Martín; his best friend.</span>
  <em>
    <span> A man. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Andrés never really thought about this, not in any serious way - he didn’t give his affections, his lust, any conscious thought. Ever the hedonist though, he did what he wanted, he took what he needed. And never, until then, did he need that, that particular thing. A man - this man. Martín. But he does now.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés—” Martín has suddenly lost all his coyness, his legs still dangling off the bed, and he allows Andrés to straddle him. He says nothing when Andrés’ hands land on either side of his head, he stays there, watching, silently. Unmoving. Unprotesting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course Martín wants this. But he doesn’t push, he only angles his head when Andrés drops his head to kiss him, following him when Andrés retreats. He’s playing with him, he’s playing with Martín and he feels just a little bit guilty about it - maybe? Maybe it’s guilt. But he can’t ignore the burning in the pit of his stomach, the coiling need that’s gathering and spilling inside him. He wants it too, he wants him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s gonna die. They’re both going to die and it’s going to be grand, it’s going to be beautiful and poetic, so maybe— maybe Andrés can indulge before that. He wants it, and his time to take is almost over. So he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín kisses him like a dam that’s burst, moaning in Andrés’ mouth as he pushing up on his elbows. His boldness shines through once again, and he’s pushing to sit up, but Andrés won’t allow that. He pushes him back against the mattress, pinning him under his weight. A decade, Andrés thinks and he has to marvel at it - a whole decade and Martín finally gets to have this. He’s such a gift, Andrés; he’s a fucking gift to make this happen. But no— he has to remind himself, he wants this too. His desire doesn’t weigh a decade; it’s barely minutes old but it fuels him just the same. This is a gift to them both, and isn’t it poetic that they both enjoy it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets his hands slide along Martín’s arms, he feels the coarse hair brush against his fingertips as he slides lower and lower until he wraps his fingers around Martín’s. It’s easy to move their hands up, to pin them above his head, to rest his weight on Martín's lap and to just let himself feel it. His best friend, his trusted partner in crime, his most loyal companion through so much of this journey. They’d die together so it was only fair that they’d get to live beforehand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not gentle when he takes Martín just like that, with their fingers laced together and their foreheads pressed; it may be sweet in the way their lips meet and their breath shudders but it feels filthy and greedy when Andrés' hips connect sharply with Martín's ass, again and again. He's not gentle when he flips Martín over, when he rests his weight on his palm buried right at the top of his spine, pushing him down so securely. He slides right back in with one snap of his hips, right to the hilt, and he fucks Martín like he's the one who’s been denied it for a decade and can now finally pick what's his. He's buried inside him deep when he comes, blinding and unexpected and leaving him breathless, and Martín follows immediately, the shocks of his orgasm milking the last bits of sanity from Andrés.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés divorces Tatiana as soon as she returns to the monastery. He does it because, while he doesn’t care whether Tatiana betrays him or not - she won’t, he’s made sure - he’s become aware that he simply doesn’t care if she’s there at the end. It’s an uncharacteristic kindness on his part, to not tie her to his sinking rocks. It’s not a gesture he does for Martín, not really. Maybe not consciously. But if Martín chooses to see it as such, Andrés won’t dissuade him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín is happy. He doesn’t gloat, he doesn’t take more than he’s offered - when has he ever? They’re going through this beautiful phase where nothing is changed but everything is secretly </span>
  <em>
    <span>more. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Andrés doesn’t mean to hide it, but things fall as such that they have a few months of bliss, encoded in familiar touches and meaningful smiles. He’s a dead man to be, about to make his most ambitious plan a reality, about to make his legacy truly memorable, and things are </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Until one evening, a chilly and rainy evening when he’s about to go out and sign the last of the divorce papers. Tatiana’s waiting for him, but she can wait. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>wait. He’s getting ready, asking for Martín’s validation, ready to be showered in his unabashed praise like he’s done so many times before, but this time— Martín calls him ‘beautiful’ and ‘powerful’ and he smiles, smitten and sincere, and he offers wine and Andrés can’t—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to have that wine with you, Martín.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martín would die. They both would, together in the Bank, surrounded by the gold -</span>
  <em>
    <span> their </span>
  </em>
  <span>gold. They’d die and it suddenly becomes clear to Andrés, clearer than anything he’s thought of lately, that he doesn’t want this. Martín doesn’t deserve this. Because Andrés would die one way or another, and while unfair, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>burden. He can’t place it on Martín’s shoulders as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he excises him out of his life, his cruelty a precision weapon as he pulls Martín in then pushes him away in the same breath, at the end of a kiss that started with a declaration of love. It’s surgical but it hurts like the depths of hell, it hurts them both as Andrés turns to walk away, leaving them both broken and weeping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The illness takes hold of him much sooner, more consuming than anyone expected. One year, if he was lucky. His plan to get the gold is just a sickening reminder of just how powerless he is. He’s still hungry for it, his legacy. His passion, his one true love. His gift. So he joins Sergio when they take the Mint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Retroxil barely stops the shaking and he’s so numbed up by morphine that he can only laugh as everything slowly crumbles around him when they’re inside. He orders Monica to be shot, because he thinks that there’s no more time for consequences, because he can, because he’ll die soon and none of it matters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How wrong he was to think so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio - observant, ruthless Sergio - he goes straight for the jugular, he goes for the one thing that Andrés prizes more than anything - his reputation. Everything is ruined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So why should he care anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he fucks Ariadna against that desk, burying himself so deep inside her like he’s trying to make it hurt, to make her remember it, he thinks, wildly, ‘this is it’. He thinks, this is what madness feels like. Sweet, blissful madness. He never resisted it, not a single step along the way. He doesn’t resist it when he pulls a frightened Ariadna behind the barricade, shielding her from the barrage of gunfire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is his chance to have the last word. So he does, right before getting up to face the smoke and bullets, he says it even though he can hear Sergio panic and scream in his ear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is it. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, little brother. Don’t forget it.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wanted to explore Andres' dark side; a 'what if' of an ugly, selfish, and unhinged man - but one who still retains his humanity.</p><p>Some liberties taken with the timeline and some key plot points.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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